Читать книгу Pursuit of Justice - Pamela Tracy - Страница 9

Suspicion turned to incredulity as Sam realized whom he’d arrested.

As Cliff wrapped beefy hands around her neck, Rosa Cagnalia became a Tasmanian devil of movement even as her face turned the color of blood. Cliff went down to one knee as a well-placed kick connected.

Sam let go of the breath he’d been holding.

He’d found Rosa Cagnalia.

Atkins reacted first, grabbing Cliff by the waist and trying to tug him away.

Sam added his weight to Atkins’s and wrenched Cliff’s fingers from around Rosa’s neck. Another officer hurried in and used his baton as a wedge. Using the wall as leverage, Sam managed to get his hand between Cliff and Rosa. His ex-partner emitted a sound, much like an angry bear, and rammed Rosa into the wall. Her head flew back, solidly connecting with the solid structure. Sam expected some noise from her then, but all she did was sink into the chair.

Executing a headlock, Sam pushed Cliff into the restricting arms of two fellow officers. Shoving them out of the room, Sam slammed the door shut, barely noticing that Atkins left with the crowd.

Rosa remained in the chair with her knees pressed together, her hands clutched at the edge of the seat, and her face full of a combination of disdain, fear, regret—so many emotions that Sam couldn’t even begin to know which ones predominated. The only indication she gave of fear was the pale tinge of her skin.

She hadn’t been this white when he pulled her over.

His eyes went to her neck. Cliff’s fingerprints were there. Rosa Cagnalia, aka Lucy Straus, should be gasping.

But why should he care? She straddled a line he didn’t dare approach, and the majority of her weight wasn’t on his side of the law.

And, as much as Sam understood Cliff’s pain, he sure didn’t, couldn’t, support his actions. The grief spilling from the man explained why video cameras sometimes caught America’s Finest using extreme force. Cliff hadn’t seemed aware that he’d been choking a woman. All Cliff knew was that he’d found one of the people responsible for his son’s death.

They were alone in a room that now reeked of hate and anger. Sam stared at Rosa for a long time, waiting for her to move, speak, do something! This woman was partly responsible for the ruination of Sam’s mentor, one-time partner, and full-time friend, Cliff Handley.

How could she look so ordinary?

She’d been there when Jimmy Handley, a rookie, a third-generation police officer, forfeited his life in the line of duty. Jimmy had been a mere Boy Scout when Sam teamed up with his father: a twelve-year-old carbon copy of his father. Jimmy had been sixteen when, thanks to commendations and promotions, Cliff had moved his family to Phoenix. Jimmy had been twenty-one when he put on his own badge and twenty-four when the coffin lid closed.

The funeral had been just two years ago this month: a cold, gray January day.

Sam took a deep breath. Contemplating what he had in front of him. Finding Rosa Cagnalia was tantamount to finding gold, fool’s gold. She didn’t look like a woman who could sit back while—

Well, this certainly explained her marksmanship this morning. And that answered another question. Now that Sam knew who she was, it explained who the men in the parking lot were. The Santellises. How had they stumbled upon her on the same day Sam had? But since she was supposedly on their side, why were they shooting at her?

And Cliff being in Gila City was just as coincidental. Just three weeks ago, Cliff retired and returned to his hometown. He used his limp—he’d been injured striving to bring justice to those responsible for Jimmy’s death—as a crutch and bore no resemblance to the once-proud police officer who had bagged Walter Peabody.

Luck had turned her back on Rosa Cagnalia and dumped her in Sam’s lap. Of course, in many ways, it was her own fault. What was she doing in Gila City: Cliff’s hometown and a known haunt of the Santellis family?

Her chair was still flush with the wall. Her hair hung in her face, and she didn’t move a hand to pat it back into place.

“You’re Rosa Cagnalia?” Disgust accented his words. How could someone so beautiful be so flawed?

She flinched and unclasped her grip on the rim of the chair, folding her hands in her lap. “No.” The word was directed at her hands. She wove her fingers so tightly together that the skin turned white, and then she looked up at him and whispered, “You have to let me be Lucy.”

“It’s too late for that.”

Her eyes blazed, and for a moment he remembered what had attracted him.

“Do you realize that by finding me, you’ve signed my death warrant?”

“You did that yourself, lady. You chose your way of life a long time ago.”

“Oh, were you there?” She glared at him. “You know the choices that came my way?”

He frowned. “I’ve read the files.”

Atkins poked her head in. “You need to back off, Sam. News travels fast. The feds want her.”

“I brought her in.” He stared at Rosa. No way would he be delegated to gofer by special agents. This was his turf. He was responsible.

“I’m sure they’ll thank you.”

He thought for a moment that the words came from Atkins, but they hadn’t, and he was reminded why he had thought Rosa might be a cop. Wisecracks rolled off the tongues of those in blue, partly in jest, and partly as a shield from a daily routine that took them into the armpit of Gila City. Female officers tended to verbally raise their shield a bit more than Sam was used to.

Atkins added, “Sam, I mean it.”

“It’s my case.”

By all rights, he should hate this woman. She had been there when a drug bust spiraled so out of control that Cliff was emotionally crippled, and his son was killed.

She had been there, and she had left without making any attempt to help Cliff or save Cliff’s son.

Funny way for a one-time registered nurse to act.

If she had shown compassion, Jimmy Handley might still be alive and Cliff would wear his badge with pride and determination instead of with grim need. Instead Rosa Cagnalia stepped over the bleeding body of Jimmy Handley, picked up a bag full of money, and in the chaos of the moment, managed to disappear.

Atkins rolled her eyes and backed out of the room. Sam looked at the two-way mirror. So the feds wanted Rosa. Having the FBI take over a case was something like inviting the class bully into your backyard. If you stayed, you got beat up. If you left, he destroyed your yard. Sam didn’t relish turning Rosa over to them, but she deserved whatever she got.

He had nothing to lose by washing his hands of this woman.

And nothing to gain by hesitating. So why was he? He flipped the handcuffs from his belt. “Stand up.”

She stood, muttering under her breath.

“What did you say?”

“I need someone to feed my cat.”

“Your cat! Lady, do you realize the trouble you’re in?”

“You keep reminding me.”

“Your cat is the least of your worries.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked at him.

“Ms. Cagnalia, surely there’s someone in this town who you can contact to feed the—”

“No, there’s no one. I didn’t make any friends. I was afraid to.”

She meant it. Her face was as serious as a funeral director and just as pale.

“My cat needs food. There’s a key hidden under the garden gnome behind my trailer.”

He waited for a please. It didn’t come.

Reluctantly, he left her with Henry, the duty officer who handled admissions. Feed her cat! Of course, he’d do it. She’d just given him permission to enter her home. He’d probably have to search long and hard for the cat food.

He could hardly wait.

Rosa awoke to more pond scum green. On television they always showed rickety bunk beds and open toilets, but Rosa’s cell didn’t look that domesticated. Last night, after hours of questions, when they’d finally shoved her in here, she’d been too tired to care.

Gingerly pushing up from the ledge she’d been sleeping on, Rosa tried to focus on what all had happened. She gingerly touched the back of her neck. A dull headache and a slight sore throat remained a souvenir of Cliff Handley’s wrath. It could have been worse.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all the dumb places to give in to the itch of a lead foot! She deserved to feel the bitter tightness when she swallowed. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d given a cop permission to enter her trailer. She didn’t dare hope he’d simply feed Go Away and leave, that simply wasn’t a cop’s nature.

But she had no one to ask. She’d been careful at work to build up a reputation as a loner. She liked her coworkers too much to put them in danger. She’d been even more careful at church to distance herself and that hadn’t been easy. She dropped off casseroles at potlucks, crocheted pale pink or blue blankets for baby showers she didn’t dare attend, anonymously donated money for catastrophe relief, and all the while managed to convince the friendly folk of the Fifth Street Church that she was too busy to get involved more than a church service hello.

She didn’t dare call Wanda Peabody.

She’d been so careful, except for the cat. Oh, she’d tried. When the stray showed up outside her trailer, she’d refused to feed it. She’d said “Go Away” every day for a week. Then, when she found her next-door neighbor Seth tormenting it, she’d gone all indignant.

She brought attention to herself, made an enemy of Seth and his girlfriend, and she’d wound up with a pet she didn’t dare keep. Once she brought it into her trailer, cleansed its wounds—oh, it felt good taking care of a living being again—and had given it some food, well, the cat stayed.

Officer Friendly should feed Go Away. It was his fault Rosa was in jail. He was already involved, and nobody was likely to kill him as a way to get back on her. Plus, everything she’d discovered about Sam Packard while she’d been researching Cliff Handley suggested he was an honest, hardworking cop.

And a wayward Christian.

His name was in the directory of her church: the one he never attended. Hadn’t attended since his mother died. Well, before that, really. Yet, everything about him shouted believer. He was the Gila City cop who spoke about choices at the local high school. He was the Gila City cop who actually helped parolees find jobs—two of the cab drivers at her company owed Sam thanks. He looked to be a decent man, a giver.

Pretty amazing since he’d first been assigned Handley as a partner?

Handley was a taker.

Still, even before she’d realized the name of the cop who had pulled her over, her first impression had been one of honesty. Dear Lord, she was scared. Clasping her hands together she prayed and tried to get a handle on how she should be feeling, what she should be doing, what Jesus would do.

Worry wouldn’t add one moment to her life. God knew about the sparrows so he knew about her.

Oh, she so wanted the concept to work for her. But, she never seemed to be able to cease the internal dialogue that constantly played in her head: the dialogue that listed her sins.

One, she was partly responsible for Jimmy’s death. She hadn’t pounded on his chest, tried CPR or anything. She had no doubt he was dead, irreversibly dead. Still, it had been against her moral code to leave him there—and her a registered nurse. The cops had no problem reminding her about that little detail, over and over, yesterday.

Two, because of her, her family had forfeited any hope of old age. An inadvertent-seeming car crash—just one year ago—severed the last ties to anyone who would, could, believe her. Cliff and the Santellises knew how to punish people who got in their way.

Three, her best friend Eric was in jail because she wasn’t able to find the evidence that would clear his name. Guilt by association. Nobody cared that an innocent man sat in jail. They only cared that his last name was Santellis. In Arizona, Santellis and crime were synonymous.

And, four, she had taken more than half a million dollars in drug money and didn’t know how to make things right.

Okay, feeling sorry was allowable but not for long. She couldn’t hope to get out of this mess if she gave in to self-pity. What were the positives?

Yesterday, she’d managed to ditch the evidence. That cop had been so close, she had hardly dared breathe as she grabbed under her seat for the manila envelope, vacated the car, and hoofed it through the residential area. And, thank goodness for the rosebushes by that first fence.

What if it rained?

What if some little kid found the envelope?

What if Samuel Packard remembered her hesitation and returned to the fence and found her pile of documents linking Cliff Handley to the whole mess.

What if—

No, she had other things to worry about. The folder was hidden, for now.

At least now she could start thinking of herself as Rosa again which was another positive. When she had first taken Lucy’s identity, she’d taped the name and played it over and over on her cassette player. As she drove her car, as she lay in bed, even in the bathroom, she had listened to the name over and over, until she claimed ownership of it. She couldn’t afford to think of herself as Rosa. It had taken weeks, but she’d learned to turn automatically when someone said Lucy’s name.

She couldn’t think of any more positives. Then again, she had heard of fugitives, who when they were finally apprehended, only felt relief. She wasn’t one of them. She had thought Gila City safe enough for a very careful stay—a stay designed specifically for gathering evidence to prove to the world what Cliff Handley really was. She’d done all she could on the Internet. Now, she needed to casually speak to people off the record, find out what he’d been doing before his stint in Phoenix.

For almost six months, she’d felt safe enough here. She’d shopped in the dress shop his mother owned, managed to meet some of his friends, and when she had nothing, when her life was as empty as could be, she’d entered Cliff’s church looking for someone who might point suspicion his way. She found something besides evidence. She’d found God.

He was the only one on her side in this dismal cell. A cement ledge protruded from the wall, a jutting giant step that had been her bed. Instead of a cell with bars, she was in a room with a door. An unyielding green door that bore the wrath of previous occupants whose names and insults were scraped into the paint. A small window gave a blurry view of an inner room with an aged picnic table. She could hear a washer and dryer humming. A television blared to the left. Men’s voices came from the right.

How had things gotten so out of hand? The Santellises, Eric’s brothers, had been in the parking lot! Did they just luck upon the scene of Rosa Cagnalia getting a speeding ticket? If so, coincidence had a sick sense of humor.

She really hoped Officer Friendly had taken care of Go Away. If she had any insight into the character of Officer Friendly, he would find a way.

Sighing, Rosa sat on the cement ledge and tried to piece together the events of the last twenty-four hours. She’d crawled out of bed at ten, a little earlier than usual. Mondays were her favorite day for getting things done. She’d dropped a handful of bills off at the post office, found her favorite computer at the library and again scanned old Gila City Gazette papers looking for any mention of Cliff Handley’s name, any early instances of drug dealings, who was involved and possibly still alive. Then, finally, she’d headed home. She’d wanted to spread out the few new tidbits she’d uncovered. She wanted to read them at leisure, see if she’d missed anything.

She’d been hurrying home.

Could somebody who knew the Santellis family have seen her, recognized her? She had put on fifteen pounds since running. Weight put on intentionally. She wore jeans and T-shirts instead of the designer clothes she’d once thought necessary. Her hair, once long, wavy, and streaked with highlights the color of burgundy, now flowed jet-black and straight. The real Lucy Straus had short, uneven midnight hair. Rosa had copied Lucy’s style, and she still felt surprised when she washed her hair. Since childhood, it had been down to her tailbone.

She had cried when she cut it. Then, she had cried because cutting her hair was actually the least of her concerns.

A gray blanket was folded at one end of the cement ledge. She pulled it toward her, wrapped it over her shoulders—ignoring the stains—and leaned against the wall.

Mildew and strong detergent wafted to her nose. Throwing the blanket to the ground did nothing to end her frustration.

Now might be a good time to call a lawyer.

Unfortunately, the only lawyer she knew was Eric’s lawyer.

Sam circled the trailer park twice before parking in Rosa’s carport. The place was fairly empty. Most had already left for work, school or other vices.

Excessive paperwork and a need for sleep kept him from getting here last night.

In some ways, showing up to feed her cat was a stupid move on his part. Not even twenty-four hours since her arrest and already his life spun out of control. Still, he felt propelled by a continuous nagging that there was something he should know but didn’t.

Her mobile home was nothing to get excited about. The first contradiction he could account for was the comparison of where she lived to what she drove. Now, to Sam’s mind, a guy might pay out major bucks for a vehicle and live in a dive, but few women seemed to prefer first-rate wheels to a first-rate address.

He had searched the interior of her car. Nothing, not even a gum wrapper. Rosa kept no spare change, no tissues, not even a map of Arizona for the glove box. The Owner’s Manual for the Ford lay in the glove box along with a slim wallet carrying more Lucille Straus identification. The spare tire, a tow chain and jack were in the trunk. She could walk away from the vehicle, and no one could trace it to her—especially since a quick search showed it still registered to a guy she worked with at Liberty Cab Company.

Not even a breeze tried to interfere as he snagged the key from the garden gnome. She’d picked a residence—it wasn’t a home—where neighbors were not neighborly, where lawns were replaced by rock, and where a cement wall kept the world at bay.

As Sam put the key to the mobile home, he wondered if the inside would be as barren as the outside. He pushed the door open. The cat yowled and brushed against his foot.

“Back.” His word didn’t affect the cat. Judging by the torn ear and jagged scar that zigzagged down to its eye, not much should affect this cat. A feline tail shot straight up in the air as its owner circled Sam’s legs. He should have gotten the feline’s name from Rosa.

“Back, Cat.”

It was a rectangular box, encased with paneling. And even with the overfed black-and-white cat, who seemed to think that continual rubbing against pant legs was an expected greeting, the place was a residence not a home.

Room one: a combination living room-kitchen. Inside the refrigerator was a six-pack of diet soda and two apples. Outside the refrigerator she had taped a scripture:

Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to you I pray. In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation.

The kitchen table didn’t look as if it had been used. Not even a crumb graced the surface or the floor. There was also a couch, a television and a coffee table. Next to the couch was a basket of sewing. Picking up the sampler, he realized that Rosa seemed addicted to the words on the refrigerator. She was halfway finished with a cross-stitch bearing the same verse.

No knickknacks gathered dust. No pictures graced the walls. Sam opened two cupboards before finding hard cat food and filling the bowl on the floor.

The cat quickly lost interest in Sam and became devoted to its food.

Room two: a bedroom-bathroom. Her bed was made, no surprise. The closet held only a few outfits. If he had figured anything about the woman from her mannerisms, he figured that lack of clothes probably was a real sacrifice. She had a dresser, but only one drawer was utilized. There were a few piles of library books, stacked neatly on top of the dresser. A phone book and well-worn Bible were on the nightstand.

Sam picked up the Bible. Flipping to the personal pages, he found the dedication page.

Presented to: Lucille Straus

By: The Gila City Fifth Street Church.

On: The occasion of her baptism, November 12^th

She’d been baptized just two months ago at Cliff’s old church. At one time, it had been Sam’s church, too. Frowning, Sam wondered if he needed to consider that prayer he’d witnessed earlier as a true plea for divine intervention. Or, was there another reason Rosa attended a church where Cliff and his family were well-known even if they had seldom crossed its foyer in more than a decade.

The more he thought about it, the more he wished he’d never pulled her over.

The bathroom was stuffed into a small corner of Rosa’s room, wedged between the closet and the dresser. The shower couldn’t accommodate a big man; the sink had a continual drip. A small bag of makeup spilled out next to the faucet. Sam smelled toothpaste and peaches. Ah, the real woman.

Returning to the bedroom, he got down on his knees and looked under the bed. A durable, green suitcase shadowed a back corner. He dragged it out, plopped it on the bed and opened it.

One outfit, a change of underwear, two cans of cat food, two bottles of water, toiletries and an envelope with five hundred dollars.

No, wait.

Another envelope was pushed behind the money. A set of keys tumbled to the bed, and Rosa’s picture smiled out at him from identification belonging to one…Sandra Hill.

She was prepared for flight. If she had to run, all she had to do was crash open the door, shove her makeup back into the bag, nab the cat, grab the suitcase, and the police would have been left with little or nothing to prove that the mobile home had actually provided shelter for Rosa Cagnalia, aka Lucy Straus, aka Sandra Hill.

He closed the suitcase. His hand paused on the handle. What was he thinking? He needed to leave now. The feds could be pulling into the trailer park right this minute, and they would be anything but happy at a local cop tampering with evidence.

He felt a twinge of guilt. He was actually considering taking the suitcase, plus the Bible, and working on the case without the knowledge of, or permission from, his superiors. This was not his usual method.

One mistake and his pension and retirement fund would become a distant memory—not to mention the wear and tear on his conscience.

Sam replaced the suitcase. When he got back to the station, he’d plug Sandra Hill’s identity into his computer and find out what the connection was.

A couple of hours after a dismal breakfast of oatmeal—she’d eaten every bite and asked for more—they’d shoved a short blonde into Rosa’s cell.

So much for solitude. Just her luck to get arrested during the busy season.

“Name’s Marilyn Youngblood.” The blonde blew a bubble and sat down on the ledge as if it were a well-worn recliner. “Whatcha in for?”

Whatcha in for? Rosa wanted to laugh. Yeah, that’s right, a mere twenty-four hours in jail and here was a stranger acting as if sharing personal history was a given. “Speeding.”

Marilyn raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know they arrested people for speeding. They always just give me a ticket.”

“Must be a slow month,” Rosa acknowledged.

“They stopped my boyfriend for speeding.” Marilyn inspected her nails. “When he went to pull out his license, a joint fell out.” Her voice turned sarcastic. “I didn’t know he had a joint.” Her tone indicated that she was more annoyed about the prospect of her boyfriend not being willing to share than about being arrested.

“Bummer.”

“Yeah. So, this your first time in?”

“Yeah, you?” Rosa wondered if Marilyn realized that her blond wig contrasted ridiculously with her dark eyebrows.

“No, this is about my fifth. And all of them because of my boyfriend.”

Rosa had never spent time behind bars, but during her friendship with Eric, she’d learned how to spot undercover police officers. She had little doubt about this blonde’s true identity. Still, she knew the game, so she said, “I’d think about getting a new boyfriend.”

“I really should.” Marilyn inspected her nails again, then asked, “So where ya from? Me, I’m from Texas.”

Okay, so the woman was persistent. That was to be expected. “I’m from here.” Rosa recited her Lucy Straus history, pleased to note the disbelief in Marilyn’s eyes.

“No kidding. You don’t look Indian.”

“We prefer Native American. And I’m only half.”

The door creaked. The mumbler peeked in. His expression hadn’t changed since he’d escorted her to the cell. This man made the old Maytag repairman look energetic. Rosa didn’t understand his words, but Marilyn perked up. “Lunch.”

The mumbler marched them to the wide room outside their cell. The picnic table had been scooted away from the wall. Two bowls, with slices of bread covering their lunch’s identity, waited. Milk, from a miniature carton, was to be the drink of choice.

“Noodle soup,” Marilyn said disdainfully.

After a few minutes, Rosa sopped up the last of the broth, left the picnic table and went to look out the window. She could actually see a functioning washer and dryer but nothing else. A door next to the picnic table led to the outside. On the off chance, Rosa tried the knob.

“There’s no way out,” Marilyn said. “I’ve been here before. And the television you hear, that’s in the men’s area. They get to have noodle soup and watch reruns at the same time.”

Rosa leaned back against the wall.

“So is anybody coming to get you?” Marilyn asked.

“Nope.”

“Have you called anybody?”

“Nope.”

“When my uncle comes to get me, I could make a call on the outside for you.”

“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”

“Really, it’s no problem. I know what it’s like to be in here and not know what to do.”

“I know what to do.”

Marilyn leaned forward. “What are you going to do?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Sandra Hill’s past history was a carbon copy of Lucille Straus’s, only Sandra had a few more years under her belt. When the photo of Sandra popped up on Sam’s computer screen, he sucked in his breath. He knew this woman, too. He’d picked her up for vagrancy more than once.

Rosa Cagnalia couldn’t have…No, she wasn’t capable of…She hadn’t fired the gun that killed Jimmy Handley; she’d been there with her boyfriend Eric Santellis. The big question was who had pulled the trigger: had it really been Eric Santellis as a jury had ruled or an outsider?

Rosa knew.

And Sam wanted to know what Rosa knew. He wanted some sort of justice for Cliff. His ex-partner was a stranger now, a broken man who’d first lost Jimmy and then a year later his wife, Susan, divorced him.

He had a daughter, too, who looked a lot like Jimmy. Sam hadn’t seen Katie since Jimmy’s funeral.

He punched in Lucy Straus as a keyword and watched as more than twenty hits returned. Lucy had been a busy girl since Rosa assumed her identity. She’d rented a home, gotten a job, joined a church and donated to charity.

Was this how she was spending her stolen fortune: on sporty cars and the needy?

Sam pushed away from his desk, reached for his keys and barked at Atkins to get hold of the Tribal Police and have them be on the lookout for the real Lucy.

His phone rang before he could leave.

Within moments he’d been assigned to sit watch on Rosa’s mobile home. Glancing at his watch, he figured he’d have time for a quick look for Sandra before he started surveillance.

If he found Sandra, there’d be questions.

If he didn’t find Sandra, there’d be even more.

An hour later, Sam was no closer to the truth.

The homeless loved the park at the edge of town. It offered a sanitary, somewhat overly fragrant, bathroom, which never had toilet paper; a duck pond which drew children who often threw away a half-eaten Happy Meal; and enough trees to provide shade for any vagrant who wanted to slumber.

Sandra Hill was not there.

After a few minutes of questioning, Sam knew that Sandra hadn’t been seen in over six months.

Exactly the amount of time Rosa had been in town.

One more piece to figure into the puzzle that was Rosa Cagnalia.